The Road to Rus'

tale.

Spring 858

While most people he knew believed everything was a result of the will of the gods, Vratymyr was more pragmatic and believed everything happened for a reason. That is not to say that Vratymyr discounted the will of the gods or their importance, but he also believed that men had a say in their destinies and that destiny forged their actions.

Destiny had been both kind and cruel to Vratymyr. He was born into a lineage of leaders yet denied the opportunity to continue his bloodline. At first he thought it was his wife that was barren, but eventually he realized it was he who was chosen by the gods not to father any children. Prior to his marriage he was not celibate by any means, and he had also made several attempts to sire a child after his wife had died from illness several years ago. If he could not continue his bloodline, he would at least concentrate on making sure his people would prosper after his passing to the next world.

He paced laboriously, contemplating how events would unfold as he adjusted the belt clasped at his waist over his simple tunic. Vratymyr, though a leader of his people, did not try to separate himself from them too much. He believed he should understand them in order to command them. If the people did not respect him or believe in him, he felt that there would be no reason for them to follow him.

Vratymyr ran his hand through his shoulder-length hair. It shone like wet clay bristling against his broad shoulders as he paced through the courtyard of his meager stead. He had not seen the need to have a large pompous dwelling but preferred simplicity. After all, he had no family left and did not need much space. Maybe it was better this way, he thought to himself. Without a family, he could dedicate all his effort to governing. He did miss his wife Myrusha though. She had been a good wife and a good friend. She was also a sister to his friend and Kniaz’ of the Siverians, Yaropolk.

He remembered her passing as if it were yesterday, though five summers had passed. Myrusha had returned from gathering mushrooms in the woods with a small cut on her ankle. It was an innocent looking cut but the next morning her leg ached and she began to vomit. Her body burned with fever and her skin became blotchy. She could not even sit up in her bed, and everything she tried to eat was regurgitated almost immediately in a fit of coughing. Local healers tried everything from hot drinks with herbs to herbal poultices. Nothing helped. A day later, she was gone. In her fevered delirious state, he could not even wish her a proper goodbye. He rubbed the back of his fist against the corner of his eye as he felt a tear forming. He would not let his people share the same fate. No, they would not die while he stood around feeling helpless.

The Greeks had always been distrustful of the traders from the north, and dealings with them had always been difficult, though prosperous. But this time they had gone too far. The news that Gunnar and Stoyan brought from Tsargrad was disturbing, and he knew that in the coming months there would have to be great changes if his tribe was to survive and prosper.

Vratymyr hoped the representatives from the other Slavic tribes would arrive soon so that he could put his plan into action. Though there had been some cooperation amongst the tribes lately, once again their differences had given rise to bickering and raids of each other’s holdings that benefitted no one. Over the last several decades, Kyiv had grown into a bustling trade town controlled by the Polians, though they still had to pay tribute to the Khazar Khagan. While the Khazars did not have many soldiers stationed in Kyiv, only if the tribes united could they rid themselves of these overlords.

The Khazar Khagan Zacharias had recently converted to Judaism and was trying to instill this religion throughout his entire empire. Though a small portion had converted, there were still many uprisings among the worshippers of the old gods; there were those that worshipped the god of the Arabs, as well as those that followed the Roman god. Zacharias was tolerant of other religions but the worshippers of these other religions were not always as tolerant as the Khagan himself. The time to challenge the Khazar authority in Kyiv was now. Most of the population of Kyiv was Polian, though there was still a sizeable garrison of Khazar warriors at the customs house in Podol. Podol had become a thriving neighborhood of traders. It was not uncommon to see Varyags, Khazars and Bolghars among the indigenous Slavic Polians bartering their wares.

Vratymyr had been the Polian Kniaz’ for several years now and had seen his tribe grow and flourish these last twenty years. His grandfather had lived quite a long life, but his father died at a young age and Vratymyr became the leader of his people at the young age of twenty-five. The neighboring Khazars to the southeast and the Varyag Rus to the north referred to their rulers as Khagans, but the Slavs preferred using the term Kniaz’.

Bronislav, Vratymyr’s grandfather, used to tell him stories of how their ancestor Kyi who was the son of a Khazar Khagan and a Slavic woman founded the city of Kyiv. That had been about three hundred years ago and the names of Kyi’s parents had long been forgotten by time. Whether Grandfather’s tales were true, Vratymyr did not know, but they made for a great story while hunting. Vratymyr smiled as he recalled his grandfather’s raspy voice. He could hear him recounting the story of the mighty Kyi with his brothers Shchek and Khoryv. They founded Kyiv, naming it in honor of Kyi and believed it would one day be the greatest city the world had ever seen. The hills of Shchekovytsia and Khorovytsia are the burial mounds of Kyi’s brothers, Bronislav would say, pointing at them. And Lybed’, which still is a tributary of the mighty Dnipro, was named in honor of their sister of legendary beauty. Her hair flowed like the gentle waters on a calm summer’s day, shimmering, as they reflected the light of the sun.

Vratymyr missed his grandfather’s stories but both Bronislav, as well as Vratymyr’s father, Sviatoslav, were long gone, and the Polians were now his responsibility. He was determined to help his people survive and thrive.

The image of his father and grandfather quickly faded as he heard a ruckus outside. Vratymyr jumped to his feet and rushed out to see several riders dismounting.

Kniaz’, one of his guards said. The Siverian delegation has arrived.

Vratymyr immediately recognized the massive Yaropolk with his long, flowing, rusty-colored hair and beard.

I can see that. It’s not possible to miss such a mountain of a man unless you are blind. Vratymyr smiled, glad to see his old friend.

The Siverians were masters of the territories just east and northeast of the Polians, and Vratymyr had known Yaropolk for many years, coming to trust him as a friend and close confidant. They had gone on several expeditions together and had built a good relationship amongst first themselves and later their tribes. Later, Vratymyr married Yaro’s sister, so they were family as well. Vratymyr knew that of all the people that were to be present, Yaropolk would be the easiest to convince to agree to his plan.

Perun be praised, Yaropolk exclaimed as he dismounted. It is good to see you.

And you as well, replied Vratymyr as the larger Yaropolk grabbed him in a massive bear hug. You are looking more and more like Perun every day, he laughed.

Careful he doesn’t hear you, Vratymyr, exclaimed Yaropolk, or he may strike us both down with a bolt of lightning from the sky. Yaropolk was much more superstitious than Vratymyr, though his belief in the gods had its limits as well. Yaropolk did however believe that Perun guided his arm and gave him strength in battle. Knowing Yaropolk’s strength Vratymyr somehow did not doubt this. He once saw Yaropolk split a birch clean in half from twenty paces with a massive throwing axe.

What is so urgent that you had me ride all the way here from my cozy home? You know how tired my poor Zoryan gets, having to carry me all the way here, the massive warrior said as he petted his horse’s cheek in consolation. The muscular horse snorted as if he were agreeing with the big man.

Let’s wait till the others arrive so I do not have to repeat myself, but I believe you will see the urgency of the news Gunnar and Stoyan have brought from Tsargrad.

Tsargrad was the name the Slavs had given Constantinople since they began sending emissaries there twenty years ago and opened up trade with the Empire. Most trade with the Romans had been conducted along the Volga river route but with the arrival of the Varyags from the North and the establishment of their outposts in Ladoga, Gorodishche and Polotesk, a new route was created along the Dnipro River. Kyiv was slowly becoming a more important hub along this route. The Slavs also called the Romans Greeks, because they all spoke Greek and it seemed like the natural thing to call them.

Very well, bellowed Yaropolk. In the meantime then let’s fill my belly so I don’t starve.

I’ll see what we can muster up, though if the others don’t get here soon I’m sure you’ll eat and drink me out of my entire stock. Vratymyr laughed.

Don’t you worry, if you run out I’ll go and see what the Khazars have down by the docks, Yaropolk said as he grinned and tapped his axe handle with his thick-fingered hand. They’ve always got enough to feed three armies with all the tributes they collect.

Vratymyr signaled, and one of his retainers quickly began setting the table in the hall.

And make sure you bring some mead, Yaropolk boomed as loud as he could to make sure the servant heard him. Yaropolk was quite fond of the mead the Polians brewed using the sweet, thick honey of their bees. Its intoxicating qualities made him feel as if he could take on an entire army. An elixir from the gods, he would say.

Soon Yaropolk was able to gorge himself on a feast of buckwheat pancakes and pies stuffed with fish and vegetables. As he was draining the last of the mead on the table, Vratymyr informed him that the rest of the guests had arrived. Bohuslav from the Derevlians is here and a rider from the Krivichs arrived yesterday who said that Brachislav is indisposed and will not attend. I have heard nothing from the Radimichs.

The Derevlians, thought Vratymyr, would be hard to convince. They were constantly warring with the Polians, but Vratymyr believed that the more tribes he could consolidate to his cause the greater their chance of success. He would have to be careful and see how Bohuslav reacted to the news before revealing anything further of his plans to him. The Derevlians were probably the most xenophobic and proudest of the Slavic tribes. Bohuslav was also probably the most superstitious of the tribal leaders. He would let the gods and not reason guide his actions, or at least he would convince himself that his actions were the same ones the gods would have taken had they been in his position. While Vratymyr had heard some crazy stories about the gods, he doubted any of the gods could be as crazy as Bohuslav.

Slowly everyone gathered in the hall. Vratymyr instructed the servants to bring refreshments for his guests and then to leave and not disturb them unless it was the gravest of emergencies.

The hall, while not grand by any means, served its function well as a gathering place for this meeting. It was sunken into the earth and constructed of timber insulated with mud and clay to keep out the cold.

Gunnar and Stoyan soon joined Vratymyr and Yaropolk in the hall. Gunnar was almost as massive as Yaropolk but had golden hair and a very long beard. He had been trading with the Slavs and had served as a Varyag emissary to Tsargrad for the last twenty years. During this time, he had learned the Slavic language, Greek, a smattering of Latin and enough Arabic words to get by with their traders.

Stoyan looked almost scrawny next to Gunnar though he was not a small man by any means. His weathered, clean-shaven face and chiseled muscles showed that he too was no stranger to the road and to dealing with danger. Stoyan had been on several dozen trading and diplomatic expeditions with Gunnar over the last ten years. Stoyan was a Polian like Vratymyr, and Vratymyr trusted him to represent his interests in foreign lands. Stoyan, like Gunnar, had picked up several languages during his embassies and trade missions.

The last to enter the hall was Bohuslav. Bohuslav was not a big man but it was obvious that he was no stranger to battle. His face, scarred in several places was missing an eye from what must have been a vicious cut from an axe or sword. His remaining eye seemed to dart from one side to the other, as if compensating for the lack of peripheral vision. He carried his helmet in his hand and refused to part with it.

Welcome to our hall, Vratymyr said to Bohuslav as eloquently as he could manage given their history.

With Stribog’s wind at my back I have come, though I see not what is so urgent that I need be here, blurted Bohuslav, clearly not at all happy to be there.

Perhaps you will see that the reason is an important one once Gunnar and Stoyan tell their tale. As you know from my messenger they have recently arrived from Tsargrad and bring news that I felt important to share with all the tribes in person, Vratymyr explained.

We shall see, Bohuslav replied. Let us get on with this. May Dazhbog give you the gift of telling this tale quickly so I can get out of this dung heap. Of all the gods Bohuslav liked to invoke, Dazhbog was his favorite. He was responsible for the sun rising and the giving of life.

Vratymyr sensed that Bohuslav would not make this easy. Most likely persuading him would be impossible, but he was determined to press on and see if he could convince him of the danger facing all the tribes.

Very well, said Vratymyr. Let us get on with this. Stoyan, let everyone hear what has transpired.

I want to hear the tale from the Varyag, interjected Bohuslav. I know Stoyan is your man and I wish to hear this tale from a neutral party.

Very well. It matters not who tells the tale, simply that it is heard and its implications discussed, Vratymyr said with an exasperated tone. Gunnar, would you like to proceed?

Gunnar cleared his throat with the sound of a bellows coaxing a fire. Forgive my Slavic as Stoyan is about as good a teacher of languages as I am a goldsmith. Yaropolk laughed heartily, but Vratymyr noticed that Bohuslav’s expression did not change. He was obviously not amused by the remark. As you know Stoyan and I returned from Tsargrad two weeks ago. As you also know, we were charged with returning a party of merchants from Tsargrad to Kyiv that were there on a trade mission from the Polians and Siverians. Unfortunately, those merchants were unable to return with us.

What do you mean, unable to return? Yaropolk asked, rising to his feet. My son was supposed to return with them. This was his first mission to Tsargrad.

Vratymyr had no idea that Yaropolk’s son had been with the merchants in Tsargrad and quickly interjected, Yaro, sit down and let the man finish his tale. But you’d better have some more mead for you may not like what he has to say. Please continue, Gunnar.

Yaropolk sat and drained another clay pot full of mead.

As I was saying, Stoyan and I went to Tsargrad to retrieve the merchants and to escort them back to Kyiv. As we dragged our ships ashore, the harbormaster told us that it might be a good idea if we turned around and returned from whence we came. When we asked why he simply said that all of their goods were confiscated and that they were executed for spying yesterday at noon.

Yaropolk leapt to his feet and screamed, What? All of them? Executed? Spying? Have the Greeks lost their minds? Yaropolk’s face was beetroot red, and veins bulged at his temples. The clay pot in his fist shattered as he clenched it. He pulled his axe off his back and in one blow cleaved the massive oak table in two. Clay pots, other drinking vessels and bowls flew through the air in a crazed dance, whirring and spilling their contents everywhere as the table disintegrated beneath them. I’ll show them spying by burying my axe in their heads!

Vratymyr quickly located an undisturbed vessel, poured Yaropolk some more mead and stuck it in his hand before he could do any more damage. Yaro, please, I know this is hard but let the man finish. If I would have known Dushan was in the party, I would have let you know sooner.

Yaropolk, obviously angry and distraught reluctantly sat down on the bench amidst the wreckage of the table still gripping his axe tightly with his meaty fingers until they turned purple. It seemed if he were to let go of the axe he would be lost.

Gunnar stared in amazement for a few seconds, wiped some stray liquid off his sleeve and continued, "While we were resupplying in the harbor we tried to piece together exactly what happened. Both Stoyan and I know several people who are willing to part with information for a price and we were able to deduce that the general feeling was that the Emperor’s minions think they can do with the backwater peasants from the north as they please.

We stayed as long as we thought we could without attracting too much attention, but were unable to find out what became of the bodies after the execution. Needless to say, we did not think that we should overstay our welcome and did not stick around lest we suffer the same fate.

They will pay dearly for this, Yaropolk said in a surprisingly calm manner as if slowly accepting what had transpired. He pulled out a knife from his belt and made a small incision in his palm, allowing his bright red blood to flow forth and collect in his fist. He let several drops fall on the ground, then on the blade of his axe and proclaimed, By my blood the Greeks will pay for this, this I swear on my blood and the blood of my ancestors as Perun is my witness.

Gunnar explained that the journey back was for the most part uneventful other than spotting a party of Magyar scouts while portaging their boats and supplies near one of the Dnipro cataracts. The Magyar party was small, however, and did not interfere with them. Gunnar and Stoyan were able to move on before they returned in force. After he concluded his tale, Gunnar took a seat. The rest of the room sat in silence.

Bohuslav was the first to speak. So, you asked me to come all the way here to tell me a tale of how you lost some trade goods?

Is that all you think this is, Bohuslav? countered Vratymyr. You know very well that the Khazars and the Greeks have been strengthening their relations for some time now. This move shows that they are content with their trade routes along the Volga and may be trying to shut us out.

What has that to do with me? Bohuslav continued in a matter-of-fact tone. You are the ones trading with the Greeks not us. We are quite content to live off the forest and not meddle in the affairs of the south.

You may not want to meddle in the affairs of the south, Bohuslav, but they may very well want to meddle with you, replied Yaropolk. What if this means the Khazars want to solidify their control over these lands and are planning a more serious expansion northward with the help of the Greeks? Without the trade routes, how are we to continue paying the tribute to the Khazar Khagan? What if this is a plot to get us to default on the tribute and to take a more active role in our territories?"

Those are a lot of ifs, Bohuslav said. I do not deal with ifs. If the Khazars and their Khagan want a piece of me and my tribe let them come to my forest and we will show them what a mistake that is. Until that time, we will continue to live as we have always lived and not meddle in the affairs of the south. It is not my affair that they demand a tribute of you and that you pay it, nor is it my affair that they kill your merchants. As long as they stay off my lands, they will not have any trouble from me, and the same goes for any of the tribes. The gods will continue to protect us and if they come Perun will strike them down with lightning from the sky.

Vratymyr realized that any hope of an alliance with Bohuslav was lost. He was a stubborn man, but he did care for his people. Perhaps staying out of it was best for them. It was probably best that Bohuslav not be a part of the alliance either. If Vratymyr’s plan were to succeed he needed the alliance to be strong and not have unpredictable links.

Bohuslav got up and prepared to leave the hall.

Will you at least stay till morning? asked Vratymyr.

I’d rather be on my way, Bohuslav replied quickly. Your hall reeks of shit and cowardice.

The Slav Kniaz’ noticed the fire in Yaropolk’s eyes intensified as the Siverian began to rise from his seat. Vratymyr quickly placed all the weight he could muster on the big man’s shoulder to keep him down. Very well. I am sure your horses are ready by now.

The Derevlian leader stood, headed for the door and without saying another word was gone.

And good riddance. Yaropolk sighed. Nothing good ever came of dealing with that man. I don’t know why you even asked him to come here.

I had to try and see if he would listen to reason for once, Vratymyr countered. As you have heard, these are not ordinary times and this development is most disturbing. If my fears are correct we will need all the allies we can muster.

Vratymyr asked the guards to bring in more refreshments and to find another table to replace the shattered remnants of the one in the hall. As soon as the mess in the hall was attended to and the servants brought in a new table and more food and drink, Vratymyr felt that he should continue, as there was much left to discuss.

While it is a shame that representatives from all the tribes aren’t here, I think that the Polians and Siverians make for a good start to my plan, Vratymyr stated as he raised his drinking vessel in Yaropolk’s direction. I am actually glad Bohuslav left in such a hurry. We can now get down to business without fear of my plan going any further than this hall. As I said earlier, I strongly believe the Khazars and Greeks are plotting to make us irrelevant by having the Khazars cut us off from trading with the south. This brazen accusation and murder of our people can only mean that this plot has been put into motion. They consider us weak. As divided tribes we may not be a match for either the Khazars or the Greeks. But if we were to form an alliance of the tribes, we could stand up to them. The Khazars believe we fear them so much that their tribute collectors and guards at the customs post here in Kyiv have grown quite comfortable and complacent. I believe it is time that they found out that they shall no longer grow fat off our labor. It is time for us to send them a message and to stop paying them tribute.

What exactly are you suggesting? Yaropolk asked as his eyes grew wider than the mighty Dnipro.

Vratymyr sensed that the time was right. That we merge forces, starting with the Siverians and the Polians and drive the Khazars from our lands. We will start by taking control of the customs house in Kyiv and drive them out from the rest of our lands. We need to strike before they strengthen their presence here in the north and make it known that as long as they have any demands of us they are no longer welcome in our lands.

Yaropolk did not think long. The murder of his son and the idea of no longer paying tribute to the Khazars made the decision an easy one.

Agreed. May the gods look over this alliance favorably and help us drive the Khazars back to the sea, stated Yaropolk sternly as he took a deep drink.

We will need all the gods’ help and more, continued Vratymyr. My plan entails much more than just stopping our tribute payments to the Khazars. I want to show the Greeks that we are not some backwater barbarians from the north. I want to strike at the heart of their Empire.

What do you mean? asked Yaropolk.

I mean to strike a blow to Tsargrad itself, exclaimed Vratymyr, slamming his fist on the new table before him. They will rue the day they killed our people and underestimated us.

But how? Our two tribes? Against the Khazars? Against the entire Greek Empire? That is madness. Is it possible? I have made my oath for revenge but this seems like suicide for all of us.

"Ah, but I do not